“Of course,” she thought to herself, “his ideal runaway hasn’t enormous feet.  He, too, must have been struck with the similarity between me and his ideal, and when he realized that I also noticed it, he was frightened by my frown into saying that her feet were enormous.  How silly! . . .  For I didn’t mean to frighten him. . . .  He frightened me—­once or twice—­I mean he irritated me—­no, interested me, is what I do mean. . . .  Heigho!  I wonder why she ran away?  I wonder why he can’t find her? . . .  It’s—­it’s silly to run away from a man like that. . . .  Heigho! . . .  She doesn’t deserve to be found.  There is nothing to be afraid of—­nothing to alarm anybody in a man like that.”

So she gathered up her notes and walked slowly out and across to the private office of the Tracer of Lost Persons.

“Come in,” said the Tracer when she knocked.  He was using the telephone; she seated herself rather listlessly beside the window, where spring sunshine lay in gilded patches on the rug and spring breezes stirred the curtains.  She was a little tired, but there seemed to be no good reason why.  Yet, with the soft wind blowing on her cheek, the languor grew; she rested her face on one closed hand, shutting her eyes.

When they opened again it was to meet the fixed gaze of Mr. Keen.

“Oh—­I beg your pardon!”

“There is no need of it, child.  Be seated.  Never mind that report just now.”  He paced the length of the room once or twice, hands clasped behind him; then, halting to confront her: 

“What sort of a man is this young Gatewood?”

“What sort, Mr. Keen?  Why—­I think he is the—­the sort—­that—­”

“I see that you don’t think much of him,” said Keen, laughing.

“Oh, indeed I did not mean that at all; I mean that he appeared to be—­to be—­”

“Rather a cad?”

“Why, no!” she said, flushing up.  “He is absolutely well-bred, Mr. Keen.”

“You received no unpleasant impression of him?”

“On the contrary!” she said rather warmly—­for it hurt her sense of justice that Keen should so misjudge even a stranger in whom she had no personal interest.

“You think he looks like an honest man?”

“Honest?” She was rosy with annoyance.  “Have you any idea that he is dishonest?”

“Have you?”

“Not the slightest,” she said with emphasis.

“Suppose a man should set us hunting for a person who does not exist—­on our terms, which are no payment unless successful?  Would that be honest?” asked Keen gravely.

“Did—­did he do that?”

“No, child.”

“I knew he couldn’t do such a thing!”

“No, he—­er—­couldn’t, because I wouldn’t allow it—­not that he tried to!” added Keen hastily as the indignant brown eyes sparkled ominously.  “Really, Miss Southerland, he must be all you say he is, for he has a stanch champion to vouch for him.”